


and faster, we're sliding

by safflowerseason



Category: Veep (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 14:01:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18572953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safflowerseason/pseuds/safflowerseason
Summary: Dan fucks Selina and gets fired. Amy finds him at the hotel bar after her CNN appearance. Takes place in the immediate aftermath of 7.04.





	and faster, we're sliding

**Author's Note:**

> Just working through my 7.04 feelings, y’all.

 

* * *

All right - the panic recedes,

All right - everyone bleeds,

All right - I get what I need,

And nobody needs to know.

Nobody needs to know.

\- the last five years

* * *

 

Since there wasn’t anywhere in particular he needed to be, Dan went straight to the bar. It was seven forty two in the fucking morning, but obviously he didn’t give a shit. The bartender had taken one look at his face and left the bottle. 

He had woken up that morning feeling as high as he could remember feeling in a long fucking time, winning the primary and fucking Selina all tangled up in this fantastic, vibrating sensation of smug, euphoric glee, so sharp and powerful that he almost felt nauseated with it. 

And now he’s fired. Again. Jesus, he’s starting to lose fucking track. (One number he knows for sure: it’s the _second_ goddamn time by Selina Meyer.)

He’s down to the bottom of his second double scotch, spinning the glass idly and wondering if he wants to try and fuck the restaurant hostess on duty when there’s a little surprised exclamation next to him. 

“Dan?”

He looks up, and it’s Amy, standing there with her rolling suitcase and a trenchcoat flung over her arm, phone in her hand. She looks non-plussed, and also a bit wary—her lips are pressed tightly together, like maybe she’d regretted saying his name the second she’d said it.

They haven’t seen each other since she took off to save Jonah’s campaign, practically still limping with post-abortion cramps. They’ve occasionally been in and out of the same hotels, whenever Jonah’s campaign could afford the boutique, upmarket chains that Selina insisted on staying in, but they’ve never run into each other. 

Neither of them have been exactly trying, either. Dan had told her to go, after all. And it wasn’t like he was sitting around fucking _missing_ her or some shit like that. He’d had more than enough to be dealing with, as Selina’s new number one.

Still, there’s a sick kind of happiness filling his stomach at the sight of her. On one hand, he’s just been fired, and he wants to lick his wounds in private. On the other hand, it’s _Amy._

It always seems to be Amy, when he’s hit the fucking bottom of the barrel again.

Through the haze of scotch, it takes him a second to realize she looks different, _very_ different, from the Amy in his head. The Amy in his head has always resembled Amy from their early days back in Selina’s office—D.C. pale, with aggressively straightened hair, all buttoned up in severely professional skirt suits, clunky heels.

But _this_ Amy has somehow poured herself into a skin-tight, sapphire sheath dress that’s sinfully highlighting all her curves in a way those old neutral, neatly patterned button-downs never did, the color bringing out her eyes, giant and Caribbean-blue in her heavily contoured face. Her hair looks different too—bigger and wavier and stiffer, like maybe he couldn’t run his fingers through it. She looks fucking _electric_.

“Ames,” he says, when he realizes he’s been checking her out a second too long for him to disguise it as anything else. Then again, she likes it, he can tell, there’s very faint pink shine to her cheeks that he can’t attribute solely to the make-up. He smiles at her, lopsided and as genuine as he can muster, which isn’t much, but her cheeks go even pinker, so he knows she picked up on it. “Look at you.”

“Yeah, it’s, uh…yeah.” she finishes, looking down at herself awkwardly, and she reminds him of the old Amy for a second. “I’ve had some tv appearances, last night and this morning.” 

Dan thinks he remembers catching a glimpse of her on the networks last night, but by then he was about four double whiskies deep, too busy eyeing Selina eyeing him to really take much notice of anything that was on the television.

“What are you—“ they both begin at the same time, and Amy laughs and then looks exasperated at herself for laughing, which just makes him grin wider.

“What are you doing here, Amy?”

“Well, I had CNN this morning, and it actually went _really_ well…” There’s a mysteriously serene smile lingering at the corners of her mouth. Dan wonders what happened at CNN. “…and we’re not leaving for Ohio until later this morning…Jonah and his sister-wife are still upstairs, uh, celebrating his third-place finish.” She catches his raised eyebrow and shrugs. “No different than waiting for Selina and Andrew to finish up a crazed victory fuck.”

Dan’s not sure if he expects the mention of Selina or the phrase “crazed victory fuck” to provoke an internal reaction in any way—for truly, that’s the only way to describe last night—but the words just slide uselessly off his brain, and he feels basically nothing, doesn’t even bother to conjure up the most enjoyable parts of late last night. (Don’t get him wrong—the whole thing _,_ start to finish, was acutely fucking _sensational_ , but getting fired has pretty much blunted all the memories for now. They’ll come back in a bit and he’ll jerk off to them for the rest of his life, definitely, but at the moment, he’s pleasantly numb from all of it. The scotch is helping.)

“Uh, yeah, I was watching some of the coverage.” he says hastily, coming back to himself and gesturing at the (dark) tv screen. “Not bad, you’ve finally got some real fucking crowds at your campaign events.”

Amy’s scrutinizing him and not even trying to hide it, taking in his wrinkled shirt and rolled-up sleeves, the suit jacket tossed sloppily over the back of the chair, his own suitcase propped against his bar stool. The bottle of scotch at eight fifty five in the morning. The absence of his phone.

“What the _fuck_ are you even doing here, Dan, I thought Selina was off to…oh my god.” And her face shifts into this expression of pure, cunning delight, and he knows immediately that she’s figured it out. “Oh my god, don’t fucking tell me. You were _fired._ ”

Dan glances back into the bottom of his glass, doesn’t even bother denying it. “…yeah.”

“ _Wow._ ” Amy actually looks impressed. “What did you do? Knock up _another_ campaign staffer? Confuse the entrance song one time too many? Selina hates that kind of messy shit, Dan. ”

“I fucked her.” Dan says instead. 

He tells her because Amy is the only person in the whole fucking wide world he _can_ tell (and he has to tell _someone_ that he fucked Selina Meyer, after all), and because he’s never, ever hidden what he’s done or who he is from Amy—there’s never been any fucking point to that—and that’s not about to change just because he fucked her old boss. His old boss, now, too.

Dan watches Amy’s face while he says it, and her expression doesn’t even change. She doesn’t even fucking _blink_. She just continues to study him, like he’s some particularly complex polling data or a draft of a campaign mailer, and Dan stares back unabashedly, openly serving himself up for her judgment.

Finally, after a long beat passes between them, Amy lets out her breath, long and slow, and just says, “Yeah…that would do it, you fucking dumbass.” 

To Dan’s immense surprise, she sits down in the bar stool next to his and reaches over the counter for a glass. He shamelessly looks down the front of her dress while she does it, and they both pretend she doesn’t notice him doing it. (The bartender has, mercifully, disappeared into the back room. Dan doesn’t think Keith Quinn was completely serious with the whole death threat thing, but also…better safe than sorry.) 

Amy pours herself a shot, tops off his drink, and holds her glass up, clearly thinking.

“To…momentum.” she says, finally, and then smirks at him, like she’s daring him to oppose her choice of words. Dan makes a face. _Bitch_ , he thinks.

“Momentum,” he mumbles, and clinks his glass against hers. Amy downs most of hers in one swallow, and her lipstick leaves a thick smear on the glass when she puts it back on the table. Dan gazes at her openly, a bit too drunk already to really care if she notices. He can’t remember ever seeing her with so much make-up. Honestly, he can’t remember _ever_ seeing her like _this_ , so completely wired, practically buzzing. (Or maybe it’s just been _so_ fucking long since he’s seen her genuinely animated with pure ambition and nothing else. Now there’s no no recount election, no pregnancy, no Selina weighing her down.)

“So,” Amy says pleasantly, after a few moments pass, like maybe she’s about to bring up the weather. She runs her fingers up and down the base of her glass, absently. “She fucked you, and then she fired you.”

“You’re not…” he begins, before he can stop himself. If anyone had the right to be pissed off at him about Selina, it was probably Amy. First Sophie, now Selina. If he had any kind of conscience he might have stopped to think twice about this fucking compulsive tendency of his to fuck every woman Amy’s actually enjoyed _some_ kind of human relationship with, however fucking twisted.

But he hadn’t stopped to think. He never stopped to think, and he liked it that way. It was just sex he was after (and sex with _Selina,_ it’s not like he’s never fucking pictured it before). And _nothing_ was going to stop him last night,a fucking fire hose couldn’t have gotten in his way. For days now, he and Selina had been careering toward a frenzied romp in the sheets. Weeks, even, since the day Amy had left and Dan had been unofficially promoted. He wanted it as badly as he ever wanted anything.

“ _Dan._ ” Amy’s giving him this extremely scornful look. “Spare me. You wouldn’t give a shit even if I was.” 

He just shrugs at that; she’s right. He’s been very good at not giving a fuck about Amy’s feelings in the last six months.

“I just can’t believe you thought she _wouldn’t_ fire you.” Amy continues, blatantly twisting the knife at this point.

“It’s not like I’m a mediocre fuck, _Amy._ ” he snaps at her. “You would fucking know.”

Maybe he’s not so cool with her rubbing it in his face, after all. 

“Oh, _Dan._ ” Amy just says, and she doesn’t sound annoyed or hurt at all, she sounds fucking _exhilarated._ “Dan, you are so, _so_ fucking stupid.” He looks up from the depths of his glass to see her smirking condescendingly at him, like he’s a little boy who’s made some very obvious mistake on his math homework. Dan’s starting to find her attitude annoying enough that he doesn’t even care how hot she looks in the blue dress. “What did you _think_ was going to happen?”

“I don’t _know,_ ” he whines furiously at her. “That maybe we’d do it again sometime?”

Amy laughs derisively. “Selina doesn’t trust men who fuck her, Dan, and you should know this because you’ve only worked for her for about half a fucking decade. Why do you think she and Kent never got it on? You _know_ she was thinking about it when he first came back to the White House after those fucking disastrous midterms.” She tosses back the rest of her drink. “Because Kent is a lot fucking smarter than _you_.”

Dan makes a face. “I don’t think robots are capable of fucking.”

“You’re just lucky she waited until this morning and didn’t fire you right then.” Amy continues, in a lower voice, like she’s suddenly cognizant that they’re sitting near a hotel lobby full of journalists and stray campaign staffers. “Although that would have been _my_ advice.”

“Well, she would have had to do it herself, then.” Dan grumbles. “And we both know she never fires people in person.”

Amy laughs again, like he’s told a very good joke; the sound is pure, savage delight. “I’d forgotten. The pleasure was _all_ mine, last time. Who’d she get to do it today?”

“Fake Keith Quinn.” Dan takes another gulp of his drink and rubs a hand through his hair. The memory is still humiliatingly fresh.

“She’s still keeping him?” He can tell without even looking up, although of course he does glance over at her. Amy’s interest is piqued.

“Yeah, she’s, like, actually letting him run the campaign now, not just letting him _think_ he’s running it.” It feels aggressively fucking cathartic to further sever his ties with Selina Meyer’s campaign by giving her rival’s campaign manager what amounts to some pretty high-level intel. “Something’s up—she went off on a rant about the South China Sea in the middle of a visit to a _black_ church, for some fucking mysterious reason. Ben and Kent wouldn’t talk about it in front of me.” Fucking Ben and Kent. He should have known his position on the campaign wasn’t as rock-solid as theirs. Selina’s only _really_ listened to the pair of them for years. She stopped relying on Dan and Amy regularly since before they even got to the White House, only caring about their advice when it made her feel good about herself.

Amy’s clearly running this information over in her head, checking out all its possible angles.

“Huh.” she says. “That’s…intriguing.”

Dan shrugs, polishes off his drink. “Do with it what you fucking will.”

She pours herself another shot, tips the glass to him. “Thanks.”

She takes a small sip and places the glass gently back on the bar, Dan watching her the entire time. It feels nice…to be able to sit here and look at her and not having to worry about the possibility of a baby fucking everything up. During the whole pregnancy nightmare, he felt like he could never look at her _too_ closely. It had been too fucking real.

“So,” she begins again, as though bracing herself. “…what’d you do?”

Dan knows what she means without asking, and he isn’t necessarily sure how to answer. He doesn’t _really_ give a fuck what Amy thinks, but he’s not about to give her all the dirty details either. This whole _thing_ they’re doing right now…drinking and lightly bantering and sharing campaign intel, almost like old times, it all feels a little fucking fragile for him to tell her how exactly he and Selina tumbled into bed together.

“I got the balloons right for her victory speech. She was…very excited about the balloons.”

“Jesus.” Amy looks and sounds singularly unimpressed. “Your job was the fucking _balloons_? That used to be _my_ job, Dan, and I fucking _left._ ”

“It wasn’t _just_ the balloons.” he snaps.

Fucking Selina felt like nothing so much as pouring gasoline on an already roaring fire, in all the different ways, and of course he hadn’t thought about what might happen after, he just did it because he fucking wanted it and _Selina_ wanted it, because they were drunk on their own carefully orchestrated success and their identically swollen egos. In addition to whatever spiky sexual impulses they were both giving into, he’d thought he’d blow her mind enough that she’d listen to him more than anyone else in the room for the foreseeable future.

But of course now he’s fired, and all the hard, careful work seducing Selina over the past weeks seem pretty fucking pointless in the rearview mirror (except for the dynamite lay he got out of it…that’s something, at least.)

“I don’t know, maybe it was always in the cards.” he mutters, and shakes his head, trying to clear it, not even sure what he means, the firing or the fucking. It had felt so fucking _natural_ , was the thing…he and Selina had always vibed, from the moment she and Amy and Gary had walked into Senator Hallowes office all those fucking years ago. He manipulated his way into her office over Amy’s express wishes, and Selina let him because she _loved_ that he was doing it for _her_.

“Yeah…she’ll find someone else to do the balloons.” Amy says, in this exaggerated tone of fake-as-fuck sympathy, and before he forgets _not_ to do it, he reaches out and gives her a little push with his arm. She makes a little scoffing noise and pushes him back and _then_ she overbalances. To keep herself from falling, her hand’s suddenly digging into his upper thigh and as he tries to steady her, his hand accidentally-on-purpose brushes against her breast, his elbow colliding with her waist. By the time they fucking untangle themselves, Amy’s a bit flushed and disoriented and Dan is strangely, infuriatingly half hard at the sight of her tugging and adjusting that fucking dress and smoothing down her new curls.

“I just have to know,” Amy asks, when she’s settled back on her stool, and Dan’s still half-glaring at her, annoyed that she’s got him so worked up over some weak-sauce accidental touching. Her eyes are actually fucking twinkling at him, like maybe she knows what he’s thinking. “…were you wearing a full length mirror? Were you _both_ wearing mirrors? Was there a mirror on the ceiling?”

This is so _not_ what he fucking expected her to say. Dan stares at her over the edge of his glass in complete confusion. “What the fuck was _that_ , some kind of bit you’ve had in your pocket for the last seven years?”

“ _No._ ” she laughs. “Just something Selina said, when I told her I was pregnant. You’re both so fucking obsessed with yourselves. Wasn’t it like fucking your narcissistic twin, just a little bit?”

Dan thinks about that, cocking his head to the side in attempt to show off some true self-reflection. In reality, he’s thinking that whoever Selina goes to for her plastic surgery--inside _and_ out--he sure knows what the fuck he’s doing. “It was, actually, yeah…kind of.”

“Actually—and I can’t fucking believe I’m about to say this—if you think about it…you kind of got to fuck yourself. Just like you’ve always wanted.”

“Maybe _that’s_ why it was so good.” Dan muses, because the thought has truly never occured to him before now, and then he immediately favors Amy with his filthiest smirk, so she knows _exactly_ what he’s reliving.

Amy makes a face and downs the rest of her second drink in one swallow. “Okay, there it is, that’s my fucking limit, right there. No more.” 

He just laughs at her, shamelessly. “You asked for the details, Ames.”

“I need to bleach my brain.” she mutters, coughing slightly from the alcohol burn, and he’s reached out a hand halfway to rub at her back before he realizes he’s only doing it because of the three doubles he’s had. To cover his uncertainty, he grabs his own glass and spins it again in his fingers. For whatever reason, Amy’s eyes lock on the movement, and he feels more than hears her breath catch for a second, almost like _she’s_ the one who’s turned on now. Dan immediately looks up at her, suddenly ten times more alert. Amy meets his gaze, and for just one second, it’s like he’s tossed a fucking livewire between their hands. Suddenly it’s very, very clear that he hasn’t permanently fucked everything up between them.

“It’s probably good you got fired.” Amy says, breaking the eye contact and clearing her throat from the coughing. “Gary was obviously going to murder you anyway.”

They both dissolve into laughter at that, harder than they should, probably. It’s 9:15 in the morning, he’s fired, getting drunk at a hotel bar with Amy Brookheimer—a new Amy, a dangerous, no-fucks-given, take-no-prisoners Amy—and everything about the situation feels impossibly fucking right.  

“What does this mean for the acclaimed BKD?” she asks suddenly, and there’s a carefully neutral tone to her voice that he’s too buzzed to work through right now.

“Shit, I have no fucking idea.” he shrugs. There’s that fancy glass office in K Street waiting for him back in D.C. The thought of returning there alone is singularly unappealing. “I guess…I have to talk to Ben and Kent…see what they’re thinking.” Assuming they even pick up the damn phone.

Dan doesn’t want to think about the fucking grenade launcher he just took to his own career. Right now, he’d rather think about Amy, glowing just a few inches away, looking as relaxed and as confident in a way he hasn’t seen for…years. Definitely not since before Nevada. Maybe not since they were lobbying for PKM.

He leans an elbow on the bar, props his cheek on his fist, and turns to look her up and down again, grinning lazily. He likes this new look.

“So…what about you?” 

“What about me?”

“Third place is no joke, Ames.” 

“He can win, Dan.” she says, quietly and firmly, and she sounds one hundred percent fucking serious, as serious as he’s ever seen her.

“You _actually_ think he can win?”

“ _Anyone_ can win, Dan.” she says coldly, morphing automatically into the implacable campaign talking head, and he suddenly gets a flash of how she might have appeared on tv this morning, in that dress, icy and aloof and lying through her teeth. Fuck, he’s getting turned on just thinking about it. “Third place in South Carolina is a significant—“

“Ames,” he interrupts her, his voice a bit rough now with the alcohol, too buzzed to play games. “Shut up and tell me honestly.” Elevating a nothing candidate into a national figure is one thing. Getting away from Selina is one thing. Winning is another thing altogether, a different thing entirely. You don’t always run campaigns to win them. Not everyone can win, and everyone knows it, even though they all pretend they don’t.

Amy stops her dead-eyed pageant contestant impression and closes her mouth with a little click. After a beat, she turns and meets his gaze directly. Underneath the makeup and the hair, he thinks he can just catch a glimpse of the old Amy, young and idealistic and too fucking cute.

“He’ll beat Selina.” she says. “He can win the whole fucking election. Trust me.”

And she has that look in her eye again, that he recognizes from Selina’s early years, from the very first day he met her, actually. That blazing, determined spark.

“Then…go win.” Dan tells her, because that’s the only thing he can say in the face of such tenacity.

“I will,” she replies, and her voice suddenly tightens. “I _can._ And I…” she stops suddenly, and clears her throat, looking back into her drink. “I’m glad there’s nothing else I have to think about right now.”

Dan _never_ thinks about the almost-baby. The whole thing was just a giant fucking accident that sent Amy spinning into a temporary mind-fuck. As far he’s concerned, they’re lucky Amy didn’t let it fuck up their lives permanently. What would they have even—what would _Amy_ (he corrects himself hastily), what would Amy even have done with it?

And it almost ruined _this—_ Amy back at his side, raking him over the coals as relentlessly as ever, clearly feeling herself in a way she hasn’t in a long, long time, and looking fucking intoxicating while she’s at it. They’re both turned toward each other, curled over their drinks—her face is so close he can see a tiny little shimmery fleck of mascara on her cheekbone—and her knee keeps brushing his under the table. Dan can’t tell for sure, but he thinks she might be resting her heel against the stand of his bar stool, not her own.

“Ames,” he says, quietly.

She looks up from her drink, slowly—he’s not sure if it’s the thick mascara she has on, or if she’s really drunk now, or if she’s afraid to look at him, but it seems like it takes a while for her eyelashes to rise.

“Yeah, Dan?”

Dan’s drunk enough that he wants to tell her she _deserves_ everything the whole fucking world has to offer, that she deserves to be in the White House again, that she deserves ten fucking kids if she wants them (just not with him), that she deserves to be pulling the strings behind the next president, whoever it is. He’s drunk enough to tell her that no one has ever fucking put up with him the way she has, and that’s always going to mean something to him, even if it’s not the way she might have wanted. He wants to tell her that there’s no one like her in his life, and there never will be. (He wants to tell her that they should fuck again, and soon, that he wants to peel that dress off her and get her to make that sound she did the last time they fucked, when he pressed his face between her thighs for the first time. Months later, countless women later, he still can’t get that fucking sound out of his head.)

Instead, he just nudges her knee with his and says, “I’m glad it’s working out with that fucking ass-clown Jonah.”

She smiles back, and it’s maybe the first real smile she’s given him all morning, completely herself, wide and eager. “Yeah…I feel like, for the first time, nothing is really in the way.”

“Except the fucking candidate.” he tells her ruefully, and she just rolls her eyes in exasperation.

“You worked his last campaign. You’ve seen for yourself, the special connection he has with the lowest common denominator.”

“Hey,” Dan says suddenly, and straightens up again. “That’s _right_. I fucking _won_ his last campaign, didn’t I?”

“The NRA won his last campaign, Dan.”

“Oh fuck you, Ames, let me have that one at least.” he groans, but there’s no real venom in it, and Amy’s laughing, her curls swinging against her cheeks.

They lapse back into comfortable silence. Dan lifts his glass again, but doesn’t take a sip, staring into it hazily. Out of the corner of his eye, he can feel Amy studying him again, like he’s a hand of cards she’s been dealt in a game of poker.

“What?” he asks her, without even bothering to look her way.

“Nothing,” says Amy. She finishes off her drink and flips her phone over, tsks when she sees the time. Dan wonders if he has any new notifications on his phone, if he’s already been expunged from all Meyer-campaign related list-servs.

“Okay,” Amy says, crisply, and stands up. She’s very steady on her feet for someone who’s been steadily polishing off multiple rounds of scotch for the past forty five minutes. Dan takes the opportunity to check out her curves in the dress again. Her heels are sky blue silk pumps, spiky and high. “Come on, Dan.”

“What?” he asks, glancing up from her legs.

Amy reaches out and runs her finger over the rim of his glass, smirking lightly, and then she licks the very tip of her finger, looking straight into his eyes. Dan’s whole body tightens at the sight—he might actually swallow down an honest-to-god groan. Jesus _Christ,_ Amy fucking Brookheimer.

“Drink up, Danny-boy. It helps to remain half-buzzed at all times when you’re trying to get Jonah Ryan elected to the presidency of these fucking United States.”

It takes him a second to realize what she’s said. “… _what?_ ” Dan repeats dumbly, still holding his glass in the air like a fucking moron.

“Well, you need a fucking job, yet again, and, as it turns out, my campaign staff has ditched me just in time for Congressman Ryan’s star to ascend. They couldn’t handle the reality, which is this—and listen closely to me, Dan.”

Amy leans in and braces herself with a hand on his shoulder, fingernails digging sharply into his skin, so that they’re almost nose to nose, her lips an inch from his, so close he could kiss her, her breasts right up in his face. She smells like scotch and hairspray, like heavy tv makeup, the smells of success.

“Jonah Ryan is _going_ to become President, and it will not be because someone else resigns or because he trips ass-backward onto some other rung in the constitutional line of succession. It will be because he receives more godforsaken home-grown American votes than his opponent. And it will be because Jonah Ryan speaks to this fucking crater of a nation better than anyone else in the game right now.”

Dan just stares at her, transfixed. She’s practically _radiant_ , gloriously certain of what she’s saying, and she’s absolutely fucking irresistible like this, fiery and bloodthirsty, so bright she almost hurts to look at.

“I need someone who will help me tunnel _all_ the way down through the shit and the fucking cockroaches, Dan, lower than the lowest level of hell, _lower_ than Selina Meyer will ever dare to go. Can you handle that?”

Dan grins at her—a rogue’s grin, deliberate, arrogant, feral, as he looks her over slowly from head to foot in all her wild, manic glory. Right now, all he wants to do is grab her by the waist and fuck her up against the bar until she’s hoarse from screaming. Right now, even fucking Selina Meyer doesn’t compare to the rush he’s getting watching Amy Brookheimer plot to burn down the whole wide world around them. Right now, he wouldn’t mind being the only one left with her.

Amy grins back, her expression mirroring his in all its malevolent elation. She doesn’t need to hear his answer.

“Excellent.” She snatches his suit jacket off the back of the chair and throws it at his face. “Grab your shit and let’s get the fuck out of here. Super Tuesday’s right around the corner.”

Dan puts his glass down next to hers with a firm _thunk._ Stands up, reaches for his suitcase. Because he’s Dan Egan, and he can’t fucking help it, he reaches out and brushes a hand against the small of her back, over her hip, pulls her just a few centimeters closer. Dips his head.

“Lead the way, Brookheimer.” he murmurs into the shell of her ear.

Amy just throws her head back against his shoulder and laughs. The sound rings through Dan’s head, reckless and untamed, triumphant.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> I sat down and wrote this in almost one setting, which I literally never do…it honestly felt like vomiting up all my complicated emotions about season seven (namely that I’m loving this gasoline fire of a season, and I hate myself for loving it). No idea what’s to come with the final episodes, but this was very cathartic to write.


End file.
